No Man's Land
by Mike2115
Summary: Some time after the Fischer Case, Eames is confronted with a business venture. This time he's going to be going in alone to unravel the mystery of a coma patients mind. T for Language.
1. Prologue

Summary: _Some time after the Fischer Case, Eames is confronted with a business venture. T for Language._

* * *

_Prologue_

"I don't think you understand just how hard of a task you're asking us to complete, Mister…"

"Allens."

"Mister Allens, imagine what the subject has gone through the past three years."

"The subject has been in a coma for the last three years," A young businessman protested. He sat at the end of a large wooden desk two sizes too big. Instead of making him look professional, it accented his youthfulness.

"No, the subject has refused to wake up for three years. The mind went into a recession following his motorcycle accident and essentially closed it's borders-"

"Mister Eames," The well-dressed man on the other side of the desk snapped, causing the forger opposing him to stop his retort and fold his hands impatiently. He could wait. "Javier Talbot is –"

"Was," Eames corrected under his breath. Mr. Allens chose to ignore the remark and continued.

"—The most widely regarded military strategist on the planet. He has information we have been trying to obtain since his accident, it's just hidden somewhere in his mind." As the businessman went on, Eames unfolded his hands, holding them out at shoulder length and looking between them. His brow furrowed as he tried to get this stubborn man to understand the gravity of what he was asking.

"Imagine an infinite dimension, Mr. Allens, a dimension where you could change anything at a whim. Not just "I can move this pen,"" Eames picked up a pen from Allens's desk and threw it across the room, much to the businessman's distaste. Who gives a fuck what he thought, Eames had a point to prove. He went on, "But I can create mountains, cities, forests, seas, beaches, everything. Imagine if you were stuck in this realm for so long you mastered literally everything about this dimension. Do you know how long Talbot was stuck in this state? Can you even comprehend the multiplication needed to explain such a length of time?"

"I-" The businessman began.

"Five minutes to an hour, mister Allens. In real time, every five minutes spent dreaming is an hour, and he's been in this state for three. Bloody. Years. Let alone if he's figured to go down another level!" Eames raved, slamming a fist on the man's desk. "Every two hours is a day, every fourteen is a week! Past there… well, mathematics was never my strong suit, but you get the idea." He settled into his seat. This guy just wasn't getting it. He was beginning to retaliate, the Forger could see it in his eyes. With another burst of anger, Eames grabbed a calculator from Allens's desk and began punching in numbers violently, threatening to break the keys.

"A year is five hundred twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes. Three years is One million, five hundred seventy six thousand and eight hundred minutes. That's quite a bit of minutes, wouldn't you say?"

By now the businessman was paling. "Now you're getting it." Eames wagged a finger at him, and then turned back to the calculator. "What's say we finish the equation, shall we? Divided by five. Multiply by sixty. Divide by three-six-five… Well look at that." He slid the calculator across the desk, where it displayed five digits.

51,840.

Years.

Eames silently got to his feet; pulling his jacket off of the black leather chair he had been sitting in. There was nothing more to add. "You should have contacted me within days, not years, Mr. Allens. I'm afraid whatever information you were looking for has probably been built over centuries ago, if not millennia."

"How much would it take, Mr. Eames?"

Eames turned back as he reached the doorway, glancing to the businessman behind him. He placed a hand against the doorframe, his knuckles white as he chose his words. "No amount of money could send me up against a God, Mr. Allens."

* * *

"What do you mean, I was wrong?" Eames spat across the table of one of the nicest Italian restaurants in the continental United States. Across from him, Arthur had expected such a reaction. Not days after the meeting with Allens, Eames had contacted Arthur to confirm a nagging doubt.

"There was no way you could have known," Arthur sniffed, taking another sip from his water. He leaned forward and lowered his voice so the couple nearby didn't overhear their conversation. "When sent into a coma, the mind slows down to a fraction of normal brain function. What you estimated to be fifty thousand years would be more likely a hundred to three hundred years, give or take. Talbot wasn't an extractor, so he probably wouldn't think to go a level deeper, either," he explained. The forger crossed his arms, looking down at his steak like a dejected child. Arthur looked him over.

"And there's no way he could master all aspects of creation in that time?"

"Worst case scenario, he's made it to be his reality and stopped changing things. He's been hiding there ever since his mind resigned himself to the coma," Arthur shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure, but given the timeframe there was little other explanation. One mind could only architect for so long, even that became old after some time. Eames just held his forehead, then hissed a swear. He threw his napkin back onto the table and crossed his arms.

"What'd you do?" Arthur asked, crossing his arms as well. Eames just grimaced, and then muttered something. It was too low for the pointman to hear. "Eames, what did you do?" He demanded, his face stern. It was like an adult trying to find who took the last cookie, honestly.

" Turned down… twenty five…" Was all Arthur could make out the second time around. He shrugged.

"Twenty five thousand? That's barely worth getting a team together."

"TWENTY FIVE MILLION, ARTHUR."

So much for keeping their voices down. The couple two tables down were now extremely interested in what the two well-dressed men were discussing. Eames put a hand to his temple, the glasses on the table shaking together. Arthur's eyebrows rose. It was that all too familiar look of condescendence that really got to the Forger sitting across from him. It made his blood boil just to think he had made such an elementary mistake. Arthur dabbed his mouth with his napkin, placing it back up on the table calmly.

"Well what are you still talking to me for?" Arthur asked smugly.

"Bloody hell. I'll let you know how it goes," Eames stormed away, leaving Arthur with the check. "And Arthur!" He turned, sliding on his jacket.

"If you see Cobb, let him know he's done a lovely job sliding off the face of the earth, hm?"


	2. First Dream

_Summary: Eames' first dive into Talbot's dream state. T for Language. _

* * *

Standing at the foot of the patient's bed, the situation looked as grim as it had three days ago. Arms folded across his chest, Eames considered the comatose figure lying prone, connected to the constant beeping of life support machines. By now his brain function was only supported by the slow in and out whooshing and single green blip travelling across the screen. Highly doubtful there was anything worth looking for in that man, considering how long he was out for. Eames glanced behind him, where the machine sat in wait.

"Sir," A nurse greeted as she entered. The forger turned his attention to her, but the boring blue scrubs she wore swayed his interest. He remembered when nurses were more like flight attendants… or had he dreamt that? He barely had a chance to greet her before she changed the bedpan under Javier Talbot, then left without another word. It seemed like he wasn't getting any help with this one.

Sitting down in one of the hospital chairs, the forger pulled the silver case towards himself. Just like old times, he couldn't open the thing without some extra effort. "Come on… there you go, darling. Not too hard, was it?" He coaxed the thing. They had a love-hate relationship, but it was too expensive to get a new one, even after the Fischer check cashed. It didn't help he was blowing most of his expenses cheating in Vegas these days. He nicknamed the machine Darla, in that it was a stubborn bitch that only worked if he rubbed her the right way.

Yeah, it was named after an ex-girlfriend. Was it that obvious?

Setting the timer to thirty seconds, Eames calculated how long he could be in for. Five minutes to an hour, right? Twelve minutes to a minute… Christ, there was a lot of math involved. He was only good at subtraction. Six minutes to thirty seconds. For a look around the place it would only be a taste, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with. Besides, winding up in Javier Talbot's version of Limbo was not his idea of a vacation.

"Let's take a look, shall we dear?" he muttered as he slid the first plastic tube into the waiting wrist of the patient. Eame's promptly attached his own tube to his arm, then prepared himself in the hospital chair.

"Could've at least given me something comfortable to sit in," He muttered as his thumb pressed the center button down. The machine's calming effect overtook him, and as a second whooshing noise filled the room, Eames fell into Talbot's dream.

0:29…. 0:28… 0:27…

* * *

Eames eyes opened. His cheek was pressed against cold earth, yet the heat was unbearable. Cracks in the ground were as far as the eye could see, as if a once fertile body of water had dried, leaving only the earth below subject to the elements. Slowly, the Forger brought himself to his feet to observe his surroundings.

Whichever way he looked, Eames could only see the dried land. There was nothing to find here, only sand. Did his employer want sand? In the far off distance, Eame's could only make out the hint of mountains, but those would be at least a day's walk. In the dreamscape, it could just serve as a background; there might be only flat ground from here to eternity.

"Well this is bloody glorious," Eames frowned, brushing dust off of his jacket. He would have made a beach if he were trapped here forever. That was just him, though.

Suddenly, the wind picked up. Yet it wasn't like normal wind, or even the wind that would occur in a place like this; low and howling. This wind was mechanical and hard, coming on suddenly and strongly. Eames was blown off of his feet, landing with a hard thud.

* * *

Shocked awake by the force of impact, Eames eyes snapped open in real life. He scowled, the whooshing of the life support machines still going. He checked the timer of Darla, which was still in the middle of counting down. For all she knew, there was still someone in the dream.

0:13… 0:12… 0:11…

That couldn't be possible. Fifteen seconds? How could he have been kicked out in fifteen seconds? This was just a test round and there was nothing even there… Except that wind…

The life support machines continued to whoosh in the background as Eames pressed the emergency stop on Darla. Probably the damn second-rate machine, there was no way he was getting his ass kicked this badly. He could have sworn he saw a smile on the comatose man's face, but when he looked again the man was as unconscious as ever.

* * *

"Nothing down there?" A woman's voice repeated. Sitting at the same table had had shared with Arthur three days ago in the same italian restaurant. He was a creature of habit, he had to admit, but at least he had chosen less annoying company this time around. Eames sat across from Ariadne, the Architect, his hands folded in his lap as he explained his situation to her. Eames was still displeased, and understandably so. He was supposed to not need help, let alone from someone half his age. His experience with Talbot was brief, but it warranted further investigation from someone who knew how these things worked on a more basic level.

"Look, I'm telling you, the only thing down there was ground and wind. It's like his consciousness was… dried up," Eames tried to explain. His accent was coming off strongly this time around. "Why would someone resign themselves to a coma with nothing but flat earth unless there was nothing left."

The young woman across from him bit her lip thoughtfully as she considered this strange case. She wanted to help, but the sound of other diners was interfering with her thought process. It was a busier night this time around. Ariadne always considered herself perceptive, but the architect's path was one of the most minute detail. Glasses clinking together, people laughing, the color pattern of the carpet… She noticed almost everything these days. Annoyingly so.

"Well what do you know about the guy?" She asked after a moment, coming back to reality.

"He's a thirty six year old military strategist. Got into a bit of a nasty motorbike accident three years back, been in a coma ever since. He's from the south of Spain, travelled his entire life, aligned with the US when he was thirty." Eames explained after swallowing a bit of his meal. "Had Arthur dig up as much as he could on him past three days. Couldn't find anything about projection training, but there weren't even projections," He shrugged, unable to tell much else. He cut into his steak again.

Ariadne looked away, tapping her finger against the tablecloth in thought. She then thought of something, her eyes brightening. It was that look that Eames remembered, where she knew something he didn't. "What, love, did you figure it out already?" He asked, putting his utensils down.

"You said he's on life support, right?"

"Yes, but what's th… Oh, you've got to be kidding…" He scowled. It was so obvious… Free Association… Why hadn't he thought of that right off of the bat.

"See, you're not as stupid as you look, Eames," the girl across from him joked. He only put a hand to his face as she explained what he knew already, rubbing his eyes. He was too tired for this. "The wind is Talbot's mind interpreting the sound of the life support machine. It's the loudest thing in his world, so it also comes off as the strongest. That's why it was strong enough to kick you out of his dream. It's like an automatic defense system," She seemed to find the concept simply fascinating, but the forger only saw it as a problem.

"You think Talbot's in there somewhere? It was a wasteland," He repeated, ignoring the free association for the time being. Even if he figured out the automated defense system, there was no point in returning to a dried-up consciousness.

Ariadne just smiled her coy little smirk once more. "Anything's possible in dreams, Eames. Did you forget that?"


	3. Second Dream

_Summary: Eames meets Mrs. Talbot. Something changes within No Man's Land. Rated T for Language._

* * *

Running. One foot in front of the other. Kicking up dust as he traveled forward into the void. The only thing ahead is nothing, and the runner leaves behind nothing. The further he travels, the less hopeful he is. Nothing changes in the desolate landscape of this mind, and the only expectation is the coming wind to howl through, ruining whatever sense of 'progress' the runner had.

Such was the investigation of Javier Talbot.

Eames was getting better at sensing when the winds would be coming, at least. He had tried nearly everything to stop the mental projection of a gale force, but the rhythmic inward and outward of Talbot's life support machine was too engrained in the coma patient's subconscious. It would take days to unlearn a tempo that had been kept in motion for damn near three years. There was no way to stop the life support without killing the former military expert, either.

Right on schedule, Eames thought as a mechanical howling echoed across the barren wasteland. Like a wall of pure air, a blast struck the Forger in the chest. He had half a millisecond, he figured, between the first hint of noise and the impact forcing him off his feet. There was generally three to five seconds of hang-time, before he hit the hard rocky earth face first and

* * *

Woke up. Shifting in his seat, Eames was less than pleased at the amount of progress he was making. Nearly two hours of repeated dives and the only thing he had been able to find was a pulsating headache. One could only land face first on the ground so many times…

"Darling, I've never met such a pain in the ass," The Forger exhaled. He could feel bags forming under his eyes as he spoke. Reaching into his jacket, Eames produced a single red poker chip, which he twirled between his fingers casually. Nicked in just the right places, with the casino emblem ever so slightly off-center… yes, it was just as he remembered his totem. He had to admit the repeated dives were wearing on his consciousness, which made it all the more important he knew he was truly awake. The inward and outward sounds of the life support machine filled the room.

Sitting back in the same hospital chair he had been in the past two hours, he rested his head against the cream-colored hospital wall. He couldn't find anything if there was nothing to find, and the automated defense that was Talbot's free association wasn't exactly getting any better. Absentmindedly he spun the poker chip between his fingers, remembering it's feel, it's weight… He briefly wondered if Talbot had a totem of his own.

His thought process was cut off by the sound of someone approaching. The sound of high heels in an otherwise vacant hallway… The forger looked up as the footsteps stopped in the doorway.

The figure was a woman, of course. Eames recognized her from one of the files Arthur had found days ago when investigating Talbot's background. He couldn't recall if the woman was the coma patient's wife or his mother.

"Who are you?" She asked sharply as she stepped inside. Her accent was definitely Spanish. She was wearing a black evening gown, and looked as if she was about to attend some sort of function. Eames shifted in his seat, sitting back up.

"Missus Talbot, I presume?" Eames asked, standing. His legs felt numb from sitting so long. She nodded once before she caught herself and shot back, "Who wants to know?" What a lovely accent, he had to admit.

"Madame, I was sent by your," he took a shot in the dark, "husband's employer to try and obtain information from him."

She simply scoffed. "How's that working for you?" She asked, going along the side of the bed and sitting down at her husband's side. "They did inform you of his accident, did they not?"

"I'd say they were well aware," Eames replied, his arms crossed.

"Then how do you expect to find anything?" She snapped, obviously angered by the Forger's answer. Her attitude, her mannerisms… It reminded Eames of someone from a dream long passed.

"I have my ways, Mrs. Talbot. Were you stopping in for visiting hours?" He asked, diverting her from the dangerous territory he had stumbled into. He was still curious about why she would wear something of the sort to her husband's bedside.

"My husband is a military expert. Until he wakes up, it is my duty to keep his legacy going," she explained, her arms crossed over her chest. She could feel the forger's gaze, and she didn't like it. "I was simply stopping in before attending a dinner," She sniffed. Eames was about to follow up with a new line of questioning, but the woman stood suddenly. She stormed out of the hospital room, shouting something back to Eames.

"The next time I come to visit my husband, I don't want to see your face!"

The forger was left in confusion as the sound of high heels tapped their way down the hall. He sat back down in the chair he had taken a liking to, trying to determine what had just happened, exactly. He glanced to Javier, who didn't seem to notice his wife or the exchange that had just occurred.

"One more round, Darling, then we'll call it a night," Eames suggested. The coma patient didn't move. "Good, I'm glad you're so agreeable," The forger said as he inserted the end of the plastic tubing into his arm. He waited for the life support machine to fully exhale before slamming his thumb down on the button, slowly slipping into Javier's consciousness once more.

* * *

Waking up on the cold, cracked ground never got old. Eames slowly sat up again, not bothering to brush the dirt off of his suit. He gazed around the barren wastes of Talbot's mind. Nothing. Then a noise from over Eames shoulder caught his attention. He turned around to find a single shimmering glimpse of a door, built into the earth like a cellar. It had just slammed closed as Eames took off running towards it. He didn't know what had caused its appearance, but he didn't want to miss an opportunity.

Running. One foot in front of the other. Kicking up dust as he traveled forward into the void. The only thing ahead is the door, and the runner leaves behind nothing. The further he travels, the more hopeful he becomes. Nothing changes in the desolate landscape of this mind, and the only expectation is the coming wind to howl through, ruining whatever sense of 'progress' the runner had.

And now the appearance of a door.

Within five feet of the closed cellar, the familiar sound of howling begins. The forger begins to curse, knowing what this change in the environment signals. His hand reaches for the single rusted handle of the door, and he barely grazes it. Just enough of a touch to prove it's really there before the wind blows him backwards. "JAVIER!" He yelled as his body was flung back, moments before slamming into the dirt.

* * *

Eames woke with a start, jumping out of his chair. He ripped the plastic syringe out of his arm and was at Talbot's side in a moment, shaking him. "What was that? What is the door?" He demanded, but the coma patient only flopped around uselessly. The shaking wasn't going to do anything, let alone get any answers. Eames calmed down after a moment, digging through his pockets for the poker chip he knew so well. He twirled it between his fingers as he sat down directly across from the doorway. The doorway…

"Oh shit." He said under his breath.

Perhaps Arthur would lend him a suit.


End file.
